Jane Doe

Hello, my name is Jane Doe. You might have heard of this one before, like from the unidentified corpses, who are disposed through the back halls of forensics. What a sweet irony, that it is my corpse now, metaphorically of course, who takes this path now. Whatever... I called myself an artist, painting, writing, such things. Without an audience though, oh and that is fine. When you love to create and love the things yourself, do I even need the applause or praise? But then, the sting comes, what if, what I do is just meaningless? Like pouring water out of a bottle that has more holes than glass? Oh and then I wonder why the cup is still empty? Not because the concept of the unrecognised genius exists, does not mean, everyone who is unrecognised, is one. Right? So to speak, I'm just a normal, plain weirdo, talking in a language that is hard to comprehend, even by myself. Who can say if my words are nonsense or have some hidden twisted meaning. If not even I can? The bitter truth, one has to face sometimes is, or at least a possible truth: Girl, you might be just bad. The audience is not missing because your stuff is too avantgarde, it misses because it is hollow, and does not resonate because of this. Back to Jane Doe. I pack my pencil and my brush. A bit of time at the shore of the ocean, listening to the waves. Exactly the right now. Just listening to some primordial song, that had been there already before me, all others, and will still be there, when even the smartest and most genius one of us is not more than a fingerprint in the cosmic dust. A timeless, transcendent place, just in front of all of our eyes. Oh I can scream here, sing, whine and laugh. No one will hear it. But I can listen all the time, to a rhythm as old as time. Can there be anything better? Not now, not today, not for me.. at least